The merchant sighs, the metal rings of the shackles clinking rhythmically against his knuckles. He glances toward the corner where the blacksmith struggles to draw air.
Merchant
Timothy, hold your wrists out. I have no time to waste on this decrepit display. You are a tradeable asset now, and I expect you to be worth the coin I am saving you.
Merchant
The boy looks hollowed out, but he is agile. He will serve well enough on the road to the coast.
Timothy
I will comply. Just ensure this contract is sealed properly. I do not wish to return to this fire.
Timothy extends his thin wrists, the skin marked by the previous day's labor. The merchant looms over him, his shadow swallowing the cooling hearth.